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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471991">Baby Walk</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterspajamas/pseuds/peterspajamas'>peterspajamas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Half Angel Baby and Half Demon Dad [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Baby Jack Kline, Dean Winchester Redemption, Domestic Fluff, Domesticity in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Family Issues, Gen, Past Amelia Richardson/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Self-Esteem Issues, Sam Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Sam Winchester is Not Okay, Season/Series 13, Slice of Life, he treated jack bad!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:35:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,283</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471991</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterspajamas/pseuds/peterspajamas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 13 fic where Jack is a baby and the Winchesters are very much struggling to raise him in very different ways. </p><p>Sam takes him for a walk in the park and they end up running into an old friend- Marie, who had known Amelia. She has a baby of her own. Sam can't stop the obsessive thought that he's spent too long being empty, and cold, a vessel of old wounds, to be an okay dad. She's nice about it, though, and Sam's confidence begins to ease.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Jack Kline &amp; Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Half Angel Baby and Half Demon Dad [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2156034</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Baby Walk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryandoesntdrive/gifts">ryandoesntdrive</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>part two! Big thanks to Carolin and Milo!! gifting this one since it was a request &lt;3 </p><p>it's SO much longer than expected, I feel terrible. I'm taking more prompts for this series on my <a> href=https://arsonsamwinchester.tumblr.com/&gt; tumblr! </a> Go ahead and shoot whatever you want onto there!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jack wakes up calm. And quiet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam woke up before him- around 10 minutes before him- and he’s keeping track, so right when Jack blinks his eyes open, still half asleep, Sam is there to lean in and grab him as he gets more alert. The little blanket he’s laying on shifts; he’s rolling around. Sam picks him right up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How are you this morning?” he asks, lifting Jack up as he wiggles a little. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gurgle. A tiny little smile, before he’s back to squirming out of Sam’s hold, flopping on the bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Very nice. I slept terribly, but I don’t think you woke up once! Progress. Nice job, buddy.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam struggles to change his diaper, even though he does it every day, if only because Sam is not an expert at babies. And he overthinks things. And- and this is important- he’s too excited to be precise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam is bursting at the seams excited. He got Jack a little outfit yesterday. It’s going to look so fucking handsome on him, it’s going to make him shine. The shirt is a button up and has a funky pattern on it. Sam doesn’t wear funky patterns anymore. He should wear more of them. There’s a matching hat to go with it, too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He plops it on Jack’s head. “How about that? A little cap for you?” Sam fastens it under his chin, lightly squishing the side of his cheek. When his little face screws up, Sam’s brow creases with concern. Oh God. He did something wrong. Jack begins to cry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam sighs heavily. That’s going to wake Dean up. “Pipe down!” he shouts, on cue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t like the hat?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wants to laugh at himself; it’s futile to be sad over this. “Well, fine, then.” Jack turns away, red faced and </span>
  <em>
    <span>screaming</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Sam approaches more gingerly. “Let me get it off,” he mutters, wincing when the screams get louder. One fist bats at his wrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sam, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut it the fuck up</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Dean shouts again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m trying!” he replies, pulling the hat off and yanking his hands away when the miserable cries increase in size, volume, and intensity. Like Dolly Parton’s hair. “What do I do?” he whispers, scratching the back of his neck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pick him up</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The sobs make Jack’s head bounce, like a rocking boat on seas of red-rimmed, teary eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One quick motion gets Jack into his arms again. “Pacifier?” he whispers, offering it. He holds his breath the way he is holding Jack, complete concentration. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sam, let me </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleep</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Dean shouts, voice raw. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His jaw ticks, but with gentle handling, Sam gathers Jack closer, helping him fold his cheek onto Sam’s chest. His breathless, painful screaming tickles Sam’s skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, the screaming around the pacifier stops again. Jack wipes a little bit of snot onto Sam’s shirt. God</span>
  <em>
    <span>dammit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He was trying to match. “Am I really going to be the only fashionable one in this family? No hat?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean would skin him if he caught Sam referring to Jack as a member of the family.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s grumpy.” Sam frowns, looking at the door. “Don’t let that bum you out, though, kiddo.” The words taste vile in his mouth. If Dean weren’t so hopelessly sad, Sam would curse him out. Force him to love Jack. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, he just grimaces, shuffling a pair of pants onto the kid and shoving the tiny, baby size shirt over his chubby arms. A tiny, upset glare- more like a pout- remains on his face. Nothing intimidating, not around a bright green pacifier with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>frog </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the end. Sam removes Jack from his person, setting him on the bed and crossing his fingers that he won’t crawl off the edge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pack and play is 4 feet away, but Jack’s fine up there, watching Sam move around. In the mirror, he’s tired. Purple eye bags that he squints at, and ultimately ignores. He rolls his shoulders back, fiddling with the sigil necklace and tucking it underneath the faded shirt advertising Coke. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I skipping my shower this morning?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack laughs in delight, and Sam swings to face him. Oh God. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s eating Sam’s shoelaces. “How did you get those? Where’s your pacifier?” he asks. He picks Jack up again, chest easing at the fact that he’s smiling. Sam fishes the laces out of his mouth and Jack goes right to biting his finger. “Your dad is more talkative than this.” He swallows, mouth bitter. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lucifer</span>
  </em>
  <span> would talk all day, or not at all. He finds it ironic that someone so sweet could ever come out of him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The juddering rhythm of his heart is the only sound in the room. The walls, which have orderly posters of things he used to like, soak up the sound. It’s nearly silent. Sam’s been filling the silence, been talking out loud like he used to. It’s so easy to be unnoticeable, Christ. And now he’s remembering the stinging, lashing loop of silence that catches up his feet. Sam digs his fingers into his hair, breath whooshing out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why are you like this, Winchester?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Last night, in his T-shirt and his boxers, taking comfort in the fact that the Pack n Play was stationed by his bed, Sam almost cried. What did other people even </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>about him? What was Sam to them? He didn’t know himself- who was he, who was he to the people that knew him? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d wanted to sob, but he shoved his fist in his mouth and rolled over, watching the light seep in beneath the doorway and shine a tiny bit of color on Jack’s sleeping face. He scrapes a bit of his hair behind his ear, finally spotting the pacifier and offering it. “Better?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack doesn’t answer. Babies don't usually do, Sam thinks. His lungs shudder with a breath. The urge to bang his head against a wall builds. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean would be better at this. He would be so much better at this. Sam just skulks around in the library and pretends he talks, mostly just rooted to the dankest areas of the bunker, like moss. Slow growing and a slight annoyance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you need any help?” Dean asks, standing in the door. Sam swivels to face him. He’s got a greasy tint to his hair, and his eyes are red rimmed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Still</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m good,” he replies carefully. Jack raises both of his arms, staring at Sam- </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sam. “I think we’re going to go out, maybe to the park. You need anything?” Easily, he lifts Jack onto his hip. One tiny snuffle, and he’s clinging to Sam, perfectly content. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His chest begins to ease, with visible proof of his happiness. “Nah.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The son of Satan need anything? Human flesh?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll let him eat you, if that’s what you want. You’re probably well flavored from all those tears,” Sam bites out. Jack makes a noise of complaint, and Sam gets back to him.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Abruptly, Dean leaves them, as quickly as he’d come, his jaw working. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What the fuck ever. Sam’s tired of the guessing game. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is he gonna be friendly today</span>
  </em>
  <span>? The answer is no, most of the time, because Dean’s at his lowest. Probably a mistake to turn him down like that, but their relationship has cracked down the middle, and it’s the nephilim widening that crevice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They get breakfast and a diaper change, and Sam gets in a few minutes of reading before the urge to slam his door tight and check out of life for at least a week- he hates when Dean is angry- develops. Jack pushes away the baby book Sam had given him, huffing. “You don’t want that?” Sam asks, frowning in worry. “Hm.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack’s fists ball up, and he curls back, upset. Sam’s fingers twist together. “Please don’t cry,” he mutters. He had been doing research last night. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What do babies like? What should I do with a baby? </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Do you want to go to the park?” He takes a seat on the floor, trying to get Jack to crawl over. “C’mere,” Sam says with a grin. “Let’s get out and about.” He lifts Jack into his arms, again, one pudgy baby arm hanging over the side of his bicep and the other squishing into his chest. He’s worried he’s gonna crush Jack, but moving him also feels slightly intimidating. He doesn’t want Jack to cry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re taking the car!” he shouts. </span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t crash it.” It’s the only reply he gets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a baby, Jack stays pretty still. He has that pointed, level focus that almost reminds Sam of Cas, he has a big smile, and he cries a lot when something bothers him extra, but mostly he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>calm</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Easy to cart around. Sam straps him into the carseat, setting the whole kit on the table, half smile spreading on his face as he packs up the diaper bag. He can pretty much </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jack’s eyes on him, focusing intently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“One second, bud.” Sam glances back, just to make sure he’s still there- he is, staring closely at the little blanket on his lap. Sam got a deal yesterday. Duck printed baby blanket and a matching set of pajamas. “We’re leaving!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Within seconds, he’s out the door. It’s like a sprint- </span>
  <em>
    <span>how fast can you get into the sun, just in case Dean tries to argue</span>
  </em>
  <span>- and he scores well. Even the car seat doesn’t take long. He’s breathless, and stationed in the driver’s seat, surprised at his… he doesn’t want to say talent. Or prowess, or anything, because it’s not that. But Sam is most definitely surprised that he knew how to get Jack in there like that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He glances back, almost expecting the carseat to be facing the wrong way- Jack’s bright eyes staring at his- or on the ground. No. Secure. “Ha,” he breathes, laughing a little. The Impala pulls up and out. “That can probably be called a record, huh?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He still wishes his baby was visible from the driver’s seat. Sam’s really worried that he’ll teleport somewhere. He’s not a rational guy, alright? Spent a century in hell, all that shit. He is anything but rational. His fingers are paranoid, squeezing the steering wheel periodically, and he’s nervous to take his eyes off of the miracle baby that woke him up to the world. He reaches out, turning up the dial of the stereo, smiling- it’s Mozart. Mozart, then Beethoven, who plays until they’re in the parking lot of Green Maple Park.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Green Maple Park is off of Green Maple Boulevard, which has exactly 21 large houses. If he counts, 15 have some sort of swing. Porch swing, tire swing. Sam sits, quiet, for a moment that stretches into centuries, thinking of how Jack’s going to grow up in a bunker. He unbuckles, sliding out of the driver’s seat and squinting at the sun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack hasn’t cried once, the pacifier safely tucked in his mouth, and Sam is slightly proud of him- </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>you even be proud of a baby for keeping quiet? Is that a good thing? Sam is glad he’s not upset, instead he’s flailing a little, reaching for the lock of hair that Sam keeps tucked behind his ear. Someday, it’s just going to fall out. “Stop tugging at me,” he scolds, laying a smacking kiss on Jack’s soft head. He leans in, unbuckling the seatbelt and folding the blanket up, sticking it in the baby bag. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sun keeps beating on his back as he struggles to lift Jack out without getting him so wound up and squirmy that Sam </span>
  <em>
    <span>drops </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. It’s the thing he’s most scared of. Pretty much ever. He should probably be more scared of the possibility that formula isn’t going to properly feed an infant. Or worse, it’s not the kind of nutrition a half angel needs. Sam peers at him, concerned. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sun glints off the car when he slams the door shut. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The park is greener than a rainforest, bursting with sun and life. Slowly, he strolls through, Jack held to his chest. In his mind, he catalogues things to buy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BabyBjorn</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and a stroller for walking. Sam has never held a baby for this long before. (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jess had a nephew</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his mind screams) For hours. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack is a little excited, he can tell, but he can’t move around too well, yet, so he’s still content to just stare. Sam watches a butterfly descend onto a leaf and tightens his grip as he lets Jack blink at it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The noise of a typical park sometimes gets him anxious- Sam, not Jack. Every time it happens and he flinches, looking around, he feels another kind of pride layer on top of what’s already there. Pride for Jack. Sam’s so relieved he doesn’t lash out when he cries, that there’s nothing that makes him that scared. Dean has called him the spawn of Satan, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Satan </span>
  </em>
  <span>outright. A devil would burst into flame when it got annoyed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam knows it for a fact. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Jack just cries, because he’s human. Slowly, Sam holds him just that little bit tighter, like a child seeing their favorite parent after a long break. Sam, all the time, feels like he needs to hold Jack the way he forgot to hold Jessica. He holds Jack like he’s the only little guy who’s ever made a difference. “I love you,” he murmurs, kissing a pudgy cheek again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack starts laughing noisily, and Sam turns to look around for the culprit. Aw. He smiles slightly. It’s him. “What? Is it silly when I do this?” he asks, making another loud kissing sound above Jack’s head. Peals of giggles tickle his chest, and he grins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They trek over to a bench sitting above the kids’ playground. Sam remembers, growing up, searing metal slides and rusty swings. Wood chips that were half gravel. This park is nice, though. Trees everywhere, and a rubber-floored playground that’s attracted at least 50 kids. He smiles lightly, slowly propping Jack up on his shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he looks down, the kid’s eyes are slipping shut. A fond smile, tired, appears on his face. With all the gentleness of a real parent, he unfolds the duck blanket and puts it on Jack. He looks a little confused, for a moment, in that way that babies do, before stretching out. “Ready to go to bed?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack knocks one chubby fist against Sam’s arm. “It’s naptime, buddy,” he reminds the kid. Jack wrinkles his forehead. Sam frowns back. “Naptime means sleeping,” he reminds him, patting his back. Jack folds himself onto his stomach, staring at the playground and sighing softly “That means you start sleeping,” Sam whispers, dropping a kiss on his forehead. It still has that baby smell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know when, can’t pinpoint a moment, but Jack drifts off to sleep. Sam breaths out a silent sigh of relief, heart pounding underneath the baby on his chest. The stakes are, yet again, low. No worry of Dean sobbing-screaming in the shower, thinking Sam can’t hear. No worry of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jack </span>
  </em>
  <span>sobbing-screaming, because he’s resting. God. Sam hates when people cry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just outside of his frame of vision, he hears a huffing and puffing. Sam tenses, looking cautiously. Jogging mother. Her baby looks Jack’s age. He lets out a breath, blinking quickly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Look at you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks wryly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now that you have someone else to worry about, you’re so on edge you’re hanging off a cliff. One handed</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sam?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His head shoots up. “Yes?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman, the one who had been jogging, looks so familiar he almost blurts her name out loud. “It’s Marie!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I noticed.” He keeps his voice hushed and low, for Jack. “I didn’t know you had kids now.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a head of dark hair, curled into tiny spirals, pressed against her chest. “He’s my first.” Sam holds his tongue, doesn’t ask her to quiet down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Most of Marie is built off of memories of Amelia. Memories of how they flitted around each other, almost enemies. He remembers the animosity at some fucking dinner party, when they’d had an altercation in the back of the house. Sam had never found out what it was about, but he remembered Amelia getting so drunk she threw up </span>
  <em>
    <span>on him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They went to brunch the next day, and it was fixed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Go ahead and sit,” he says, smile easy and serene on his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I need a break,” she tells him, rumbling out a laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No shame in that. It’s good that you’re keeping in shape. I haven’t gone on a run for- three weeks?” She twists the baby, who’s awake and fussy, away from her chest, so it’s watching the playground like Sam is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No shame in that, either. I didn’t peg you for the dad type.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He feels immediately defensive. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not a father,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but at the same time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please, I am trying my hardest but both of us know I’m still a mess</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Instead of arguing, he’s quiet. “Jack was unexpected,” he says, mouth quirking. “The tables turned on me. I was a mess, but you know- I can’t be that with a kid.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you’d be surprised.” She rolls her eyes, hard. “We had to ditch the daddy.” He can hear her teeth grind, and unconsciously, he leans into Jack. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s really fine. So are you doing it on your own or did you find someone special?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, lay off the nosiness,” he teases gently. And then, “I’m on my own.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes soften. “Well then, I guess we have something in common.” Their eyes track the same place, the playground, the monkey bars and swing set crawling with kids. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kid is named Andrew- or Aaron, or something. He tells her Jack’s name, sparing more details. He lets her assume things. That Jack is his, that he’s only half orphan instead of full orphan. That Dean is still dead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It seems to me like you’re doing just fine,” Marie tells him placidly, absently patting at her own kid’s back when he starts making noises of complaint. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” he replies weakly. “I- No one’s told me that, yet.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I get it all the time. Nosy mom. Always trying to come over and see her grandkid.” Her voice takes on a mocking tone, just a shade too resentful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m really on my own, compared to you, then.” She gingerly takes his hand, the other one firmly wrapped around Aaron’s midsection. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sam, I think you’re doing alright,” she says softly. “I don’t see very many dads here. It’s a brave thing you’re doing.” Something about the words feels meaningful. There’s almost too much sincerity in them, Marie has always had a forceful, overwhelming personality.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just alone,” he chokes out, rubbing gentle circles on Jack’s back as his voice breaks, a decaying mess of a thing. A bloated body they’re exhuming from the earth, only to destroy it further. His body is a grave, and it is desecrated hourly. Sam swallows, hand freezing- like it’s got a cramp- beneath Marie’s. He doesn’t want Jack to grow up hounded by the sins of grave desecration.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean keeps telling him shit like </span>
  <em>
    <span>read the bible as a bedtime story</span>
  </em>
  <span>. To pound it into Jack’s head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you thought about joining a support group?” Marie asks carefully. He has become something fragile to her. No one treats Sam as fragile. It’s not a part of him. The first instinct is, of course, to lash against it, or prove himself strong. The next one, just as powerful, is to soak it in. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, be gentle</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he wants to beg. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so,” Sam says. His voice is the same one he uses whenever he’s trying to pretend that he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span> to Dean. “If I had the time,” he laughs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Single parents don’t get a lot of free time, huh?” she sighs, irritable. Sam’s hand unclenches and he pats her forearm. “Oh my God, and you probably don’t even have anyone to help out!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have-” Sam’s forehead crinkles. Dean doesn’t count. “Oh my God, you’re right.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I always am,” she interjects. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because the only person who could help- he hates Jack. So much.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mmm, I can see it on his face. He’s evil.” For a second, he thinks she’s talking about Dean. But she’s peeking over to Jack, rolling her eyes. “People who hate children shouldn’t even be bothered with.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>bother with him. I wish I didn’t- I love him, honestly, but he’s her brother,” Sam lies. “It’s not Jack he hates, but the idea of him.” His arm curls in, bringing Jack a little bit closer. </span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get that. If she </span>
  <em>
    <span>died</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s basically like- Jack killed her,” Marie says, smiling sadly. Sam squints at the sun, nodding. His voice feels too raw to speak. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He misses Cas so much. Not in the way Dean does. Doesn’t that make him a piece of shit? He’s been friends with Cas for just as long, right? He’s had the same near death experiences. Why doesn’t Sam have any friends? Why can’t he feel that kind of grief for somebody? Why is he- he’s broken, as a person, is what it must mean. Nothing sweeps him away, and it’s not because he has an anchor in the ground, but because he is an anchor. Rooted to the ocean floor, slime and seaweed ghosting across his lifeless body as it rots, heavy with things he hasn’t unburdened, and probably never will. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam almost cried last night, thinking about how he was nothing to the people who knew him best. Sam doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>cry like that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He is like a ghost. His memory is shit, has been since the Cage, and his personality is just memory. Ghosts want something from the living, don’t they? Sam doesn’t even have that purpose now. He has nothing making him move. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sam? You’re sweating. Are you okay?” His eyes close. The sun is too bright. “Sam!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck. Sorry.” His eyes land on the pair of babies they’re holding. “Oh God, language. I don’t curse,” he says, for an excuse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s right. He’s sweating hard, arms damp. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine. Who doesn’t, here and there?” Marie lifts Aaron just a little bit higher. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam doesn’t know what’s making him feel so honest. “You’re right. About the Jack thing. He is- was- her brother, and Jack killed her. But it’s exhausting,” he says bitingly, thinking of everything Dean’s done since Cas died. “He just really loves Jack’s mom. I did too, didn’t I? But he won’t stop acting like Jack isn’t going to turn out right. It reminds me of </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>dad. Jack is good, okay? It’s not a guessing game of whether he’s going to turn out some sort of villain, killing innocents. That isn’t how it works.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marie sucks in a breath and lets it out. “It’s just you and him?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m staying with him,” Sam replies. “He keeps to himself, though.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you ever want to come to a library thing, the one Snowbell Street one does it. It’ll probably be nice to be able to get out of the house every now and again. Get some air. Rest and relaxation.” She nudges him, and when Sam laughs, it wakes Jack up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The two of them stop talking, he’s distracted by trying to get Jack back to sleep, or at least not in that confused state where Sam can just tell if he knew what was going on, he’d cry. “I think I have to go, soon, it was nice seeing you again,” Marie tells him, getting ready to run. Her headphones get put back in her ears, and Sam waves goodbye, more preoccupied with keeping Jack’s head supported. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d read online that that was key for babies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marie runs off, and the sky rolls the clouds away, until it’s just a blue so pale it makes him think of snow. Even though the crisis is averted, and he has his frog pacifier, Sam is still worried that Jack is going to cry. God, does he get self conscious about it. He’s making nonsense murmurs, sticking his face onto Sam’s shirt, and reaching around to tug things. Mostly Sam’s hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wanna go home?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack reaches out, baby fingers latching onto Sam’s big one. He’s speechless. That- it’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>tiny</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’s so small, his whole hand is the size of Sam’s thumb. It can’t even- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam buries his face into Jack’s head, kissing softly at the bump of blonde hair that’s grown in there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They walk all the way back, with Jack’s tiny hand latched onto Sam’s. The ducky blanket is still wrapped around his shoulders. Sam’s arms are sunwarmed, and when he smooths Jack’s hair back, his head is, too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam hums Mozart on the way back, too. And they arrive, sun disappearing abruptly when they enter the bunker. When it does, Jack starts to cry. Sam drives into the parking spot a little too fast, careening slightly, so he can jump out, fumble with the seatbelt until Jack’s free. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His face is red, burningingly, as he sniffles again and again. “I have- I’ve got you,” Sam says, focusing hard. He’s been trying to keep track of what makes Jack stop crying the quickest. It helps when he’s free, or swaddled, but never in his carseat. Sam changed his diaper already, and he checks real quick just to make sure. “Shh,” he whispers, letting Jack look around, stare at the walls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His face melts back into the normal, too-serious, comical babyface Sam is used to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have a good time?” Sam glances up to where Dean’s voice was coming from. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah. He got a good nap in him.” Jack rests his head on Sam’s shoulder, close to his neck. He can feel the soft hair in the crook of his shoulder. “And now he’s ready for food.” This is usually the time he gets fed. Sam’s a little late. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can feed him,” Dean offers. Sam shakes his head, getting the bag of baby stuff he’d brought along. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m good. Or- uh, we don’t need that.” </span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, come on, Sam, you can’t speak for him. It’s not us vs them. You and him vs me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam glares at him. “You think he’s the antichrist, Dean. How am I supposed to hand him over with a bottle of formula like you wouldn’t take the first chance to kill him?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean’s breath has felt bottled until now, but now it leaves him. A snap, like in the forest when something goes terribly wrong, and the breeze disappears. Only quiet stillness. “I’m not going to kill him.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, but he killed Cas, didn’t he? You’d kill </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>for that?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean stares at him. Jack breathes on his neck, rolling over. “I wouldn’t kill you, Sam. And I won’t kill it- him. Jack. I won’t kill him, you know that, right? Even if it’s just because of you. Like- alright, maybe I’m not going to be his best friend. I don’t trust it. I’m not going to let you kill yourself, though. I’ll do my part.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam is expressionless. Dean starts forward, offering his hands. “I don’t want Jack to grow up around someone that doesn’t like him. Or trust him. Do you know what that did to me?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dad trusted you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And now, this, this is an  argument they have had a million times. Ten million times. Sam has watched his dad kill ghosts his whole life, he’s 10, he wants Dean to tell him that it does suck that he is left in a hot car for hours while they take care of the latest, he wants Dad to sit with him when he is sick, he wants to walk around their motel room, a lanky teenager, not scared he’s going to be handcuffed and doused with holy water when John feels extra suspicious. Sam </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span>- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam thinks, often, that he is a ghost, unwillingly kept from the living. He has no friends. He’s got the personality of a dry piece of pasta. He doesn’t recover from bad things well. “You can make the bottle,” he says, pointing to the baby bag. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on! I don’t want the cooking job! Sam, you ass,” he says, joking, and easily heading to the kitchen, “Are you going to make me change diapers, too?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam rolls his eyes, checking again that Jack doesn’t look upset. He’s a little squinty, must be mad that Sam’s moving him so fast. “If you want to prove yourself, go ahead and offer to take the worst jobs. I’ve been having to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean’s guilty. “I’m serious. I was thinking last night that I didn’t want to be the dick who’s running around the house and pretending to be fine. Tell me when you need help, okay?” He punches Sam’s arm lightly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll wake you up when he needs his diaper changed tonight,” Sam says, collapsing into a chair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean tosses a quip over in reply, something about </span>
  <em>
    <span>making less formula now, so there won’t be as much</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Sam lets himself go and bickers while the bottle heats up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can hold him,” he says abruptly, cutting Dean off mid-sentence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“While I feed him?” His eyes are wide. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My arms are tired,” Sam says, raising them up. They do feel floppy from all that time at the park. “Here, support his head,” he says, passing Jack over cautiously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You think I don’t know that?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam’s stomach plummets in shame. Dean handles him so </span>
  <em>
    <span>easily</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s proof, even more, that Sam is unsuitable. If he did anger right, he would hate Jack so strongly he’d be the one arguing for murder. But he’s a pacifist. He doesn’t do anger. Right. “Of course you do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aw, I don’t think he likes me,” Dean says. Jack does look mean, there, on the verge of tears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe you can feed him next time. I missed the time today, it’s a little late. I’m not surprised he’s fussy.” Dean nods, as if he knows. “Give him here.” Jack is plopped in his arms, latching onto Sam, clingy. And hungry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know you were supposed to have a schedule for feeding kids. Dad always just fed you when your crying got too loud.” </span>
  <span></span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam stares at him. “Every day, I wonder how tall I’d be if I was taken care of when I was little.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean laughs hard. Jack cuddles against his chest, happy with the bottle he’s gotten. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Danny Tanner.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam snorts. “What does that make you, Joey?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uncle Jesse, actually.” Sam’s feeding Jack, but he’s fairly sure that if he turned around? Dean would have his head on the counter, staring at nothing. Sam’s equally tired, but in a way that every babysitter is. It seems like he and Dean have switched places. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean’s tired is coming from a place in his bones. Sam glances back, just in time to see him straighten, rumpled t-shirt tugged down over his stomach. Jack sucks on the bottle, hand lifting to grab onto Sam’s arm. He smiles like a madman, cheeks hurting from it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thing about Jack is: he is like a morning coffee. He’s woken Sam up, and it’s getting easier to function in the mornings. Christ, it’s- he didn’t even run away from Dean, tail tucked between his legs. He’s awake. A laugh rises in his chest as he reaches around for the little towel he uses for burping Jack, after he ruined one of his best flannels. “Aww, all done?” His hand lifts to support Jack’s head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The feeling of </span>
  <em>
    <span>awake </span>
  </em>
  <span>follows him into the rest of the week.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I don't think this is very popular but if you enjoyed!! I would love a comment from you! (or if you have thoughts on anything. concrit is welcome &lt;3)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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